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 Posted: Sun Apr 10, 2011 4:50 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 10, 2011 5:01 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 10, 2011 5:11 pm
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Posted: Fri Apr 15, 2011 10:00 am
META SOLO
deathbed
March 31, 1411
Hopkin sits on the foot of Wickwright's bed, but only because Wickwright is too delirious to stop him.
It began last night, the slow loss of his Grimm's senses, the pain that had conquered his body finally claiming his mind. Hopkin clenches his human fists and feels pain as the nails dig into flesh, clenches harder until there is a trickle of blood. From his own hands. By his own nails. Humans are all so weak, so fragile, so random. Who's to say that Wickwright had to catch the plague? It could have been any human. It could be any human at any time. Chaos, it's all chaos, being human and looking human and dying human, like the man sitting next to him is dying, the most important man in the world to him.
His writer.
His eyes sting and he hates that too, because eyes are random and the tears are just another chaos factor, these accursed eyes blinking whenever they feel like it and crying whenever they feel like it and not even being able to see properly when they water. No wonder Wickwright wrote him, with all this muddlement to escape from, but now the mire has caught up to his Grimm, and there's nothing but muddlement for both of them, even Wickwright's mind is sunk in it.
"Your hair is nothing like mine was as a boy," Wickwright rasps from the other side of the bed.
"But I have Finch eyes," Hopkin finishes. Wickwright has repeated this three times in the last hour. He buries his face in his knees. "It was just lucky," he mutters. "Humans are all so random."
There's a coughing fit from the other side of the bed, and it takes a moment for Hopkin to realize that the sound is actually an attempt at laughter, just coming from a throat run ragged by plague. "Nonsense," Wickwright stammers weakly after a moment, "You're a Jawbone Book, aren't you? I made you, and you have my eyes." He pauses and there's another uncomfortable, stifling silence between them, thick as the mud the wagon sits in from the day's rain. "You're my book, you're my boy, my little book-boy, Hopkin, too little to be a Robert, and too big to be a Plague now, yes, you're very big now, Hopkin."
"Yes, Wickwright," Hopkin answers sadly as his Grimm rambles, pained by the words he knows that Wickwright isn't lucid enought to mean. "Your boy, but not a Finch." He has to correct him, even if he wants to be a Finch, even if Wickwright dying means he might never have another chance to be acknowledged as one.
The guide doesn't expect Wickwright to survive the night. Hopkin's face sinks deeper into his knees, unable to think that this, this barely-coherent conversation will be his last memory of Wickwright Finch. Chaos. For a moment he wishes he'd heeded Wickwright's command and stayed well away from the wagon. It's no longer familiar with Wickwright in such a state.
"Tell me a story, little book-boy," Wickwright requests with all the glee of a small child. Hopkin doesn't lift his head from his knees, but begins to speak anyway. Wickwright frowns. "I can't hear you, book-boy."
Hopkin lifts his head, but Wickwright interrupts. "Fine, then I'll tell one," he sulks, "This one is the most important one."
Hopkin's open mouth closes. A story, no matter how incoherent. Wickwright's dying tale, the most important.
"In the land of Imisus," Wickwright begins solemnly, "There was once a boy born to a man named Finnigan Finch."
He eyes Hopkin cannily, for the half-delusional state he's in. "What comes next," he demands, forcing Hopkin to think.
"The boy's name was Wickwright Finch," Hopkin continues, his voice quavering, "And he was a Finch man proper, exhibiting all signs of cleverness and interest in the world around him appropriate to the honourable Finch lineage, and thus, over his cousins, he was chosen to succeed the Finch family name." Hopkin looks at Wickwright nervously. "What comes next," he asks.
"Wickwright Finch grew up on stories, stories from wise men and foolish men and average men and Jawbone Men, surrounded by narratives, he trapped them on paper and collected them like butterfly wings that other children traded in the summertime, building himself a paper cocoon as his father taught him and grew grey and retired, leaving him to figure out how to be a Jawbone Man himself from then on. And for a while, he stayed in Rosstead,"
"But we haven't said it was Rosstead," Hopkin interrupts,
"Well, now they know," Wickwright says unconcernedly, and continues, "For a while he stayed in Rosstead, but then his heart was sunk and he had to leave, for his feet were lighter than his heart, and they knew when to fly. Like the Jawbone Men before him who collected stories, Wickwright went to write down the world, and took his paper cocoon with him."
He reaches for Hopkin. "What comes next," he murmurs, voice almost inaudible from the exertion of narrating such a large chunk of the story.
Hopkin is in anguish now, but continues. "He bound that cocoon into a book," he chokes, "And the book was his constant companion. Through Imisus, then Auvinus, then Mishkan, then Helios, then Shyregoad, then over again, faces came and went, adventures came and went, trouble came and went, but his book was always there. And as they traveled, both he and the book grew up some more, all the stories feeding them as much as the bread he earned doing anything he could. A million men all over Panymium told stories every day, but Wickwright Finch wrote more stories than they'd ever hear in their lives in his book,"
Wickwright picks up the narrative unbidden now, his memory briefly overpowering his delirium. "Then his father died, and he spent a year in Rosstead for the first time since he left, Rosstead, where everyone was familiar and everyone was strange, and his father's house was empty, and he thought he was like to die himself for the strangeness of that empty house, for the strangeness of sending his father's things away, for the strangeness of his changed city."
He pauses, coughing and catching his breath, then raspily continues, "And then he left, and his mother died soon after, which was not so hard, as she hadn't raised him, but he sorted her out too, sorted the rest of her life away in her own town, and left that strange city, drowning his sorrows in stories."
"And now he's dying," Hopkin continues miserably, but Wickwright interrupts him.
"We're not there yet. First Wickwright Finch tried to save the Jawbone Society. Obscuvos rose, remember, and Obscuvos rose on wings of plague, and both were unkind to our poor, troubled Jawbone Society. With members deserting and dying, Wickwright Finch swore to O'Neill that he would help find the truth of the matter, a solution, and went to study the plague where the dead and dying lay, unconcerned for his own health, as old as he was. The book was nearly finished anyway, and the saving of the society meant more than its completion upon acceptance to the collection. But something unexpected happened."
"He didn't get the plague first," Hopkin mumbled.
"No, he didn't get the plague first. It was his book."
"But now he has the plague."
"Yes, now he has the plague."
"And now he's going to die," Hopkin said, his voice breaking as the tears finally come. "And it's all my fault! I-if I could have done something,"
Wickwright makes shushing noises. "Little book boy, no. No, no, no. We're not there yet."
Sobbing, Hopkin feels Wickwright put his arms around him, and he clings to the man, as foul smelling and unpleasant as he is, as sweaty and blackened as he is, this is the greatest source of comfort Hopkin has. "I can't do it without you, Wickwright Finch," he weeps. "I can't be a Jawbone Book without a Finch."
"It's not so bad, little book boy. You've known me but a short while, and we all must say goodbye."
"No, Wickwright Finch," Hopkin says heatedly, "I've known you for precisely thirty-four years."
"Your hair is nothing like mine was as a boy," Wickwright murmurs.
"I know," Hopkin says, defeated. Wickwright is no longer listening to him again.
"But you have Finch eyes."
"I know."
Hopkin lays in Wickwright's arms, but only because Wickwright delirious is the closest he'll ever get to seeing his author again in this chaotic world. Together, the two of them sink into the muddlement, then slowly, by inches, sink into sleep.
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Posted: Sat Apr 16, 2011 10:17 pm
META SOLO
dancing
March 31, 1411
Hopkin wakes up in the dream world and walks.
He walks past forests, past mountains, past rivers, or as 'past' them as he can in a world with no depth. Finally, he stops in a town and sits, watching people play out stories.
There's the miller from The Miller's Merits, tricking the nobleman's daughter into believing he's magical. There's a waif dancing in the square, and her feet start to bleed, though she laughs for all the world like she's happy. There's a juggler, a clown, a bear, and side characters too amorphous to name, but illustrated or named in Wickwright's book so thus blessed with faces. A plethora of people, a crowd he loses himself in. As human as he is, he's unrecognizable as the source that the Knight and Finch refer to him as, and all he wants to do is watch as the characters in his head do whatever it is their narratives compel them to, making the same mistakes and gaining the same victories they always do.
The dancing girl bumps into him and he pauses, unwinding the bandages from his hands and wrapping them around her feet while she hops in place, eager to dance some more. Smiling at her, he pushes her back into the marketplace, and she's off like a bird, laughing and bleeding and careless.
His tunic is caught on her sleeve. He yelps as he's pulled along with her, but she grabs his hands and suddenly it's a waltz, or the closest approximation two children who don't know how to waltz can come to in a flat world. He steps into one of her bloody footprints, and they leave a trail of red as the other characters stop what they're doing to watch, their narratives on pause for the dancers in front of them. Hopkin spins her around and she giggles, her laughter flying around her head like finches. He stops, panting, and to his surprise, she stops with him, breaking her own narrative to collapse next to him. The crowd applauds and the sounds manifest in letters which fall down around them like rain and then scamper away. Hopkin watches the clappaclappaclaps, staring at the sky as they drop around his head, and laughs, himself, a strange noise to make when in the wide world, Wickwright is dying next to him. That all this could be in his head, the people and the girl, and the town, and the forest, and the mountains, and the stories, he can see five or six even just lying down. A world that he has yet to properly explore, a whole world depending on him like he depends on Wickwright. He remembers Wickwright's orders not to enter his wagon for fear of catching the plague, remembers Wickwright telling him that if he is harmed, everything is lost. With a guilty jolt, he realizes that he's been a fool, running to a plagued man for comfort. Whether he can live without his author or not, his author is simply not as important as he is. There's a whole other world relying on him, all in his head, the world that Wickwright made. Wickwright Finch Fecit, like Finch told him. If he dies, Wickwright's world dies too.
The truth is that he can't risk his life, even if it means shunning his Grimm. Not anymore.
"It hurts," says the dancing girl finally, gasping for breath.
"It does," Hopkin admits.
But it's something he has to do.
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Posted: Sat Apr 16, 2011 11:42 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 17, 2011 12:16 am
META SOLO
your thin frame
April 5th, 1411
Wickwright stares at the bound paper in his hands by candlelight.
It's Hopkin's journal from when he was sick, from when he requested parchment to be given to his Plague as a small kindness, and he has been reading it until now, so late that it's the next morning. On those pages, neat Gothic script is packed so densely that he can barely decipher it, stories and thoughts, all neatly ordered and precise. In only a few days, Hopkin has written more than Wickwright used to in a month, filling pages upon pages with his perfect handwriting. It serves as a reminder: though Hopkin now appears to be human, he is no more a boy than Wickwright is a fish.
Which is good for his purposes. If he is to present Hopkin as a contribution to the society, he must make every argument that Hopkin is no boy, but still a book, devoid of the humanity or Plagueanity or whatever it is that would make him an unfit contribution. Not foreign, but entirely of Wickwright's making. Still Wickwright's book. He tucks the journal away as further evidence, pleased that he allowed Hopkin the parchment. Any proof helps, and the more of it he has, the more likely his scheme will work. The Jawbone Men are scattered, as O'Neill said, and frightened, but unlike O'Neill, Wickwright believes that the state they are currently in is the best time to present Hopkin. If they were certain, they might be more likely to deny him, but now if he needs to he can take their uncertainty and twist. Taking advantage of their fears isn't kind, but the ends justify the means, and Wickwright knows that Hopkin is still his book. He belongs in the Collection, and Wickwright will do anything to ensure that he gets there. It's his duty as a Finch man.
As a Jawbone Man.
He massages his temples, thinking about his next move. Too much time has been wasted on this detour. Though it was necessary to join the Scientists, the caravan got to their destination at a snail's pace, and Wickwright loathes wasting even the single day he's decided to take at the Plague Sanctuary to recoup before heading back to Gadu and announcing the completion of his task. There are still many key Jawbone Men to visit, but at least he won't have to visit them all. There are Jawbone Men in each area who, if he can convince them to at least convene at the Collection for a meeting, will convince the other men in their area. Hart, Paxton, Yates, Giles, and Richmond, for starters. Each influential in their own sphere, though Paxton perhaps will be too close to O'Neill to be swayed, and some are more than wary of Finch men. If they cannot be convinced, it's down to the next rung, convincing from the bottom up. Tricky, but doable. The problem is Hopkin himself-
A scrabbling at the window. Wickwright has kept the shutters closed since the incident with the first blasted crow, but there's a faint white glow behind the shutters that causes him to hesitate. An illumination, something that he's always been susceptible to. Gingerly, he opens the window to find a white dove, graceful and beautiful. Checking to make sure Hopkin is still asleep, he lets it in but does not touch it. The painful plague is still sharp in his memory. Pushing the parchment out of the dove's feet with a quill, he opens it and is unsurprised when it begins to speak. He's heard this trick before.
"You have a choice."
The dove begins to choke and Wickwright steps back, remembering the dying crows, but instead of collapsing, bundles appear on his desk, feathers tied with string.
"To make a Plague human or to taunt the Grimms further of the Black Death, grind these feathers to dust and feed it to the object of your attention."
His mind whirs as he stares at the feathers. Instigating the plague further doesn't matter to him, he has no use for disease-ridden corpses. Making a Plague human is the thing, and he glances at Hopkin once more. His being human is a damned inconvenience right now, yes. But Wickwright remembers the number of Jawbone Men who Finch has crossed, the number who have a grudge against him, who may not be willing to listen, O'Neill's reaction to his proposal of a meeting. He has no doubt in his mind that he can convince the Jawbone Men to convene a meeting. He has no doubt that he will accomplish getting Hopkin into the Society, for he has decided that he must do it. Finch men who are determined don't fail. But just in case his original plan doesn't work...
A human-looking plague could be useful. Quietly, Wickwright reaches for the feathers, and as he does, the dove flutters away, a final question lingering on the breeze.
"Now you know how wretched it feels, to be human and feel human sickness. Pray, will you play God with me?"
He pauses. Whoever sent the dove knows of his sickness, perhaps even instigated it. For the first time, he feels the faint tug of suspicion, is this a trick? A trap? But the feathers are temptingly useful, and the sender is not an Obscuvian crow. Wickwright knows the Obscuvians are tricky but to send a dove would be like a Jawbone Man pretending to be a Shinbone Man, inherently wrong. The message simply doesn't seem Obscuvian, and so for now, the pros outweigh the cons. Though it's a risk, Wickwright tucks the feathers in with the journal Hopkin kept as a human boy. The Jawbone Men do not have an active god, the Bone has never told them how to live or how to dress or what is right or what is wrong. However, insofar as it is possible for a man of the Bone, Wickwright is already playing god. And though Finch men don't often make backup plans, as long as he has the feathers, Wickwright will use them if necessary.
Risks be damned. Wickwright Finch is playing to win.
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Posted: Sun Apr 17, 2011 12:17 am
META SOLO
a stronger, weaker self
April 4th, 1411
Wickwright does not remember the night he nearly died.
Human minds are so imperfect, Hopkin reflects, staring at the ceiling. So terrible in their forgetfulness, so fragmented. He is thankful that though he looks like a boy, he is not possessed of a human mind. His book mind is quite enough for him, as painful as it is to remember that night curled in Wickwright's arms, waiting to see whether he is alive by morning. It hurts, but it is necessary pain, something he must remember because it has the same quality as the stories in his head: Once upon a time, Hopkin and Wickwright Finch waited for death in Imisus and it did not arrive.
Something important. Something that changed things. Wickwright cannot even recall Hopkin visiting him, though Hopkin insists that he did, and the inconsistency between the facts he knows and the facts his Grimm knows frustrates him. They have never disagreed before, but he has the experience of the matter to know that in this particular case, Wickwright is wrong. Wickwright. Wrong. The idea is terrifying, and gives him headache. If Wickwright is wrong about one thing, what about the world in Hopkin's head that he made?
To accommodate the fact and subside his panic, Hopkin chooses to make two exceptions; One, that if Wickwright is wrong, he was suffering from Plague at the time, and the error can be chalked up to extreme weakness of his human body, and not to Wickwright himself. Two, that if Hopkin is wrong, then Wickwright will teach him to be right and no longer hallucinate meetings in wagons. These two exceptions seem to make things better, but the question of which one to apply remains. Hopkin notes that his body is human at the moment, and thus fallible, but he doesn't believe that his mind is, and therefore it is unlikely that the encounter was hallucinated. Therefore, Wickwright, whose mind and body are both always human, must be the one in the wrong, but only because of a failure of his body attacking his mind.
Hopkin closes his eyes and feels the dream world start to fill itself in as he teeters on the verge of sleep. Behind him, Wickwright is reading something, his mind fully restored as well as his body. It's good to have him back, and Hopkin hopes that they will not encounter problems that make Wickwright's mind make errors again. It only reminds him of the differences between them, and frustrates him because even though he looks human now, it's a reminder that he isn't human. Not a Finch. Not a Jawbone Man, but something that must be proved to be a part of the Society at all. He has no doubt that Wickwright will do it, since he is, of course, a Jawbone Book, but O'Neill's doubt, no doubt stemming from his own fallible mind, nags at him. Humans are terribly difficult things, and looking like one doesn't seem to change anything about his situation except that he can write things down and has to put up with inconveniences like blinking and needing to eat. The more he sees of humans, the more he is reminded that he is not anything like one, that for him there is no easy shortcut into the Jawbone Society like Jawbone Men get to have.
Thus, Hopkin sheds this false, flawed form, and in the morning, wakes up as he once was. A Plague, an excito, a form more befitting his status as a Jawbone Book, rather than a Jawbone Man. And he is glad of it, for he can remember what it was like to be a boy, and the weaknesses did not suit him. But at the same time, he feels discomfort, for he is a Plague, and though Wickwright cannot remember, Hopkin remembers all too clearly the night that Wickwright nearly died.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:16 am
META SOLO
gadu
dry spine
April 9th, 1411
The return to Gadu is like a funeral march.
Silent and solemn, Wickwright and Hopkin make their way back to a broken city, and on arrival, find that they might as well be on the road again. There is no safe place to stay, or no place that will have them, and so they sleep in the wagon again, outside the walls, since outside has become safer than in, even if the riots have died down. Neither of them speak much these days- there's too much to process, too much to think, and their communication is exchanged in looks while they try to formulate the words.
But who could know what to say? Gadu was the greatest city in Imisus. Now it's a miserable ruin, a reminder of just how fleeting it all is. After leading the dead and dying to a so-called sanctuary, it only reinforces what they've already remembered: that there is no longer any place, not even Gadu, that is truly "safe."
Nevertheless, the Scientists want to rebuild, take this crumbled city and their crumbled faction and put it back together, and they have requested Wickwright's help to do so. Wickwright is wary. No more plague caravans, no more guides. He's willing to offer his assistance because he needs what he'll get in return, loyalty, the promise of extra security if the Cult decides to reach one long hand towards Hopkin once more. However, the last mission nearly killed him, and he's not sure he can handle something like that again. Not so soon. Not without help. He parted with Coyotl when they reached Gadu, besides Hopkin, who is always there, he is now well and truly alone. Whatever the Scientists ask of him, he must handle it alone, for he isn't quite sure how to reject them, bold Finch though he is. The Factions intimidate him, a Jawbone Man used to isolation and relative anonymity. The buildings are leveled in Gadu, there is no hole for him to hide in.
"What will you do," Hopkin asks, as Wickwright writes a letter pledging his support. He doesn't want to face these men of science, not after what he's been through for them, not so soon, not while there are no places to hide.
"I'll wait," Wickwright murmurs, sealing the letter with wax. "Until we receive orders, we wait."
"And if the orders are like before?" Hopkin frets, hovering over the missive.
"We endure," Wickwright determines. "We survived before. The Scientists are better than the cult."
"What if we can't endure?"
"Well, then we dust our noses quick like and work out our next move from there."
They regard each other grimly, and Wickwright gets up. "Come on, into my hood," he mutters tiredly, picking up his Plague. "We need to find a messenger."
The walk through Gadu is like a funeral march. But they have the vaguest of vague plans, and the cold comfort that provides makes this dead city tolerable for the briefest of moments.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:29 am
META SOLO
death of rats
a job well done/leaves of the clover
April 12th, 1411
He does not know if it's simply the events of the week wearing down on him, but Wickwright is plagued by anxiety. Reading the note from the messenger standing on his doorstep, his heart sinks as he is presented with yet another task from the Scientists, but this is expected, nor is it as difficult as before. No, the message is not what frightens him, but rather, he fears for the messenger, which is irrational, illogical, but something at the back of his mind tells him that when the messenger leaves he will die.
Foolish. Everyone dies. No one will be saved from death merely because of Wickwright's presence, as radiant as Finch men occasionally make themselves out to be. And yet, when the messenger moves to leave, Wickwright grabs his arm and the messenger shoots him a strange look. "Yes, gov?" he asks hesitantly, and Wickwright shakes his head, dropping the limb.
"Er, thank you." he coughs, straightening up in the door frame. "It, uh, this means a lot to me." He pauses, adding, "Very commendable of you, you're a good person."
The messenger looks somewhat alarmed now. "Oh. Thanks, then." Moving to leave again, he finds Wickwright has caught his arm once more.
"Remember that," the older man pleads, cursing his own foolish mind.
"...I will." the messenger says uncertainly, shaking off Wickwright's arm. Only then does Wickwright close the door, leaning against it and letting out a breath. From his desk, Hopkin eyes the letter.
"What are we to do next?" the book boy asks in his tinny voice.
"Shyregoad," Wickwright replies curtly. "Paying a visit to the mages."
Hopkin has never met a mage. His mouth opens slightly as he thinks about the prospect, and then he adds, "But no plague caravans, right?" a tad anxiously.
"Not a one, Hopkin," Wickwright affirms, causing the Plague to smile to himself. Now the trip is exciting.
Wickwright watches his book enthuse and feels ridiculous. Clearly Hopkin does not feel the same anxiety tugging at his mind, and as a Plague, Hopkin would, if anything, feel it more acutely were it real. Too many impossible things have been real as of late is all, and it's clouding his mind. Too many things to worry about, making an old man daft. Well, he isn't about to open himself up to such weaknesses. He is an old man, but he is a Finch man, and they are the cleverest even in old age, or so he has been lead to believe.
There is a knock on the door and Wickwright answers it only to find another messenger.
"Letter from the king," the man announces, offering Wickwright an envelope. Wickwright tears into it to find news he was expecting, that the riots have died down but his house in Imisus is gone. His father's house. It's a shock that he was steeling himself for, but like Hopkin becoming an excito, it kicks like a mule. Looking up at the man, he replies, "So peace is coming to Imisus once more?"
"Something like that." the messenger agrees with a bitter smile. "Hard to imagine peace when poor folk are dead on the ground." He jerks a thumb and Wickwright's eyes are drawn to where he pointed. There, on the ground, dead of plague, is the first messenger. Wickwright feels a bubble of fear in his stomach and looks at the first messenger, then back at this one, alive and well and smiling at him. Hastily, he attempts to close the door, stammering out "Well, thank you, but I need to think about this, so maybe another day, nice of you to come!"
The door slams shut and he falls against it, sinking to the ground of the wagon. It must be a coincidence. It must be just an unfortunate coincidence that made that man fall dead.
Still, he does not venture outside again until he has heard gravediggers come and go many times that day.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:31 am
META SOLO
paid in full
not a penny more/leaves of the clover
April 16th, 1411
"We can leave Gadu any time now, yes?" Hopkin says hopefully, looking at Wickwright for confirmation.
"We need to prepare first," Wickwright corrects, putting on the book bag. Hopkin gets into it but scrutinizes his Grimm silently.
"Why didn't we prepare earlier?" he asks, remembering the days they spent in the wagon going over lessons he already knows.
"I had a bad feeling," Wickwright replies. Since the messenger, Wickwright has gone into temporary isolation, afraid that what he felt is another impossible yet entirely real phenomenon. He wants no man's blood on his hands, he is not a Cultist. Jawbone Men do not kill unless they must, for destruction of truths is a foul crime indeed. However, his logic for staying inside barely makes sense to him, and to Hopkin, who is so logical, it makes no sense at all. He sees the shape Hopkin's mouth makes, a worried, nervous little 'o' that makes him push the Plague gently into the bag so he doesn't have to see it. "Right," Wickwright says, putting his hand on the door, "We're leaving.
Another pause, then he shakes his head and opens it, wandering from the wagon's hiding place to Gadu, where few supplies can be found in the wake of the destruction of the city. However, enterprising merchants will never fail to profit off tragedy, and Wickwright is accosted by one of them. "Old man, yer lookin' fer what, I got things yer lookin' fer, come to my stall." He scurries back to a clear patch in the rubble, holding out his wares, dried food and provisions and alcohol and blankets. "You buy it, yer buying," he mutters, showing Wickwright certain items one moment, another item the next. Wickwright leans down to look, but as he does, he feels that sensation he did with the messengers, and glances up at the merchant, appalled.
That same strong urge. This man is going to die because he is here, and the illogical yet forceful knowledge sends shivers down his spine. Mouth dry, he licks his lips, and says, "I'll buy, yes." He takes what he can afford and offers his money, but the man grabs his wrist.
"There's a tax," he announces. "A time 'n effort kind o' thing. The king's men've been pesterin' me fer money, so yer gotta pay more, yer gotta." Wickwright opens his mouth to protest, but the feeling is doing a jig in his chest and so noiselessly, he gives the man the rest of the money he has with him, not much more, but more than he deserves.
"Thank yer, we're even," he says, letting Wickwright go. Wickwright's pace quickens as the merchant counts his money. Yes, he has given the merchant more than he deserves, and it is not just the extra money paid that he regrets.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:35 am
META SOLO
ties that bind
a job well done
April 18, 1411
Hopkin hates the house.
It is rubble and destruction and chaos, and as Wickwright staggers through the door frame, he shrinks into Wickwright's hood, looking at what was once a Jawbone Man's home. To him it represents fragility, blasphemy even, that a Jawbone Man's house could be reduced to this so easily, that all it could take were some angry laymen to change the solid, reassuring is into a was once. This was once Finnigan Finch's house. Horrified, Hopkin peers back out again, at the destruction, the scattered furniture, and then, with mounting horror, at the ruined study, books scattered across the floor like so many corpses. Hopkin sucks in his breath and looks away again, a sick feeling rolling in the pit of his stomach, sickness and regret. If he wasn't a plague, how easily could that have been him on that floor? How easy is it now?
"What books are they," Hopkin asks, dreading the reply but bracing himself for it like a soldier who must go out onto the battlefield and check the identity of the dead, looking for friends and comrades among the nameless throng on the field. Wickwright grunts and bends down to check, and more importantly, see if any can be salvaged.
Finally, he says, "None of them are the Finch Histories," as if that's all that's important.
"So what are they," Hopkin urges, but Wickwright is lost again, wandering through the crumbled hallways of memory and kicking up rubble as he does so.
"The family isn't here," Hopkin notes hopefully. "Maybe they saved the histories."
"If someone saved them, my money is on Feilim," Wickwright murmurs, then goes back to peering in the rooms. "That was where my father would work. That was where we ate. That was where we slept." Listing every room's purpose, as if telling the rooms what they had once been for would rebuild them. "The last time I visited here, that was where we laid out his body."
He pauses, reaching for his hood as if to pull it up over his head, but of course it's impossible with Hopkin hiding in it. The heft of the Plague weighs down upon him, and reluctantly he lets go of the fabric, letting his hands fall to his sides and leaving his face exposed to the chill spring air. Around him, citizens of Rosstead, both new and familiar, are beginning the tedious task of rebuilding, but Wickwright is tired of starting over. The thing in his hood is new enough, and since it came, it seems like bit by bit, the plague is devouring his life, more surely than if he had the disease himself.
Which he did. He winces, remembering the physical pain, and hesitates with his hood again. If he pulls it up, Hopkin could fall out.
Could he leave, then? Would it be over if Hopkin fell out, could he still salvage what little of his past there is left, as O'Neill suggested what seems like a lifetime ago in Shyregoad?
"It looks like there isn't anything else of worth to us here," Hopkin notes hopefully, wishing to leave the sad specter of a home.
Wickwright shakes his head. There is nothing for Hopkin here. For him, he has memories here, painful but relevant, his whole childhood, his adolescent years, all of it. Hopkin may be his book, but he doesn't remember being made here, though he was, and for a moment, it makes Wickwright inexplicably furious with his Plague. How can he not remember? This is where his very first pages were born. It makes Hopkin feel foreign, more foreign than he should because, Wickwright reminds himself, Hopkin is his book. The boy seems to remember some things, so why not this? Why not this when he stands in the rubble, why not this when the act of him remembering would preserve it better than Wickwright ever could? Why can Hopkin remember every damn story he wrote in his damn head, but not remember his father's home?
Nervously, Hopkin asks, "Wickwright?"
"This was my home, Hopkin," Wickwright says hollowly, sitting on the floor of his father's study.
Hopkin looks around the rubble as if to find the answer to that statement in the masonry. "It doesn't appear to be suitable for living in anymore," he offers hesitantly, "So perhaps we should press onwards."
"I could rebuild," Wickwright mutters to himself.
"Wickwright, what about the Jawbone Society?" Hopkin presses, looking perturbed. "We can't stop and rebuild houses, we have to introduce me."
Wickwright clutches his head for a moment, just leaves it there, frustrated, as the memories wash over him again, the memories he's been running and running from and now can't bear to leave as they finally catch up to him and the thing that held them is destroyed. He can fix the house, but not the memories, he knows that, and he knows that even if he has a house to keep them in once more, they won't be the house, the one he remembers. His is has become a was once, just like his book did. He still has something of the book. The book is redeemable. But the house is well and truly gone. Hopkin watches him anxiously, but finally his Grimm gets up. "What you say is true, Hopkin," he admits. "I'm a nostalgic old man, more nostalgic than I thought I was, is all. I didn't expect this."
"Do people normally expect riots?" Hopkin asks.
"Cheeky devil," Wickwright chuckles despite himself. "We'll stay the night in Rosstead for now."
Hopkin's heart sinks. This city makes Wickwright strange, and this house makes him stranger, and Hopkin hates the distance that he feels from his Grimm in this chaotic ruin. Something attaches Wickwright to this place, something that Hopkin can't relate to, and the fact that Wickwright might value it as much as him is a thought that is truly terrifying.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:38 am
META SOLO
homines leves
April 19th, 1411
The men of the Jawbone Society have a special word for laymen that they've used since before any member's family history can recall.
Homines leves, the weightless men, an appellation meant to suggest that the average man is mentally light, of little importance in comparison with a fellow Jawbone Man and scholar, though useful in some circumstances. Even Wickwright, who has spent his life amongst the laity of Panymium, uses the term casually, derisively when he's annoyed, so smugly sure that no one who he could possibly apply it to would even understand the insult. To the Jawbone Men, the term is proper, something just clever enough so the imbeciles don't understand it, something just easy enough so their own imbeciles do. To Hopkin though, the term makes little sense. If the Jawbone Men are supposed to be of an elevated state of mind, that would make them the homines leves. Not to mention the associations of weight with guilt and burdens- if a heavy heart is an upset one, wouldn't the weightless men be morally pure?
Very confusing, but not as confusing as the aves leves that are taking flight in a most sickening manner around Rosstead. Those dead crows whose corpses were once heavier than any heart, the very image of the ones who had been plaguing him and Wickwright, have begun to rise. Slowly at first, then higher, and now they hover like a sinister fog around the house of Finnigan Finch, their true natures revealed. Nothing more than aves leves, light birds of no importance.
He watches them from the wagon window, the shutters like bars protecting him from those aves leves, lest they decide to descend to torment the heavy men once more. Cautiously, he gets up and slips through the cracks in the shutter, perching himself out on the sill. A crow is hovering at the height of his face, and he reaches out tentatively, just to touch it, just to see what happens. Wickwright will not go near the things, not after his bout with plague, but Hopkin is curious as much as he is fearful, and it gets the better of him despite himself. He leans out as far as he can, and just as he's about to fall over, the tips of his slender bronze fingers brush up against its murky black feathers. For a second there is nothing, and then its eyes snap open, piercing Hopkin with the same penetrating stare he was treated to on the first night they saw the accursed things. He jumps back and gasps, staring back at it in horror, scrambling to get back in the crack, but to his relief it merely flies away as if nothing had happened. He struggles to regain his composure and slips back inside, only to find himself face to face with his Grimm.
"Hopkin," Wickwright states simply.
"W-wickwright," Hopkin stammers, looking away. How much had Wickwright seen?
"How did you do that?" Wickwright asks, peering out the window where the crow had once been.
"I-I just touched it."
"Let's try it again." Picking up the protesting book boy, they go outside, where legions of crows are floating around them. "Go on, touch one, unless you want me to." Hopkin most certainly does not, and so he nervously touches another, shielding his face in case this one attacks. But instead, it merely flies away like its counterpart, as if it had never died at all.
"This is illogical," Hopkin squeaks. "Nothing comes back from the dead. These aves leves don't make sense, they defy everything that should be and they bring only chaos, and I don't want any of them to be brought back to life anymore."
"Aves leves," Wickwright chuckles. "An apt moniker." Looking at one near his elbow, he reaches for it gingerly but draws his hand back, as if unsure. Memories of his own battle with the plague still haunt him, but he survived that, and he's a Finch man, so touch it he does. The crow comes to life like it did with Hopkin and Wickwright is briefly relieved. "So it's not because you're a plague," he remarks to Hopkin and Hopkin shudders, nodding fervently. It would be terrible if only he could bring back these hideous crows. The Plague part of him sat uncomfortably enough with his Jawbone Society side already.
"So why does it happen?" Hopkin asks, frowning at the skies.
"Aves leves," Wickwright shrugs. "Perhaps they are so light that not even death can take them seriously. Or they were so heavy before- perhaps they absorbed the plague and that was what made me sick, and now their plague has devoured everything of substance within them and left only their spirits. There could be a multitude of explanations." Quietly, he goes inside and gets some parchment, coming back out to sketch the phenomenon. "Touch another, Hopkin. We promised this to Coyotl."
Hopkin obliges, but behind him the crows are gathering and changing, becoming tall, cloaked figures which Wickwright does not even notice, but Hopkin does when he turns back to look at Wickwright for approval. Sucking in his breath, he squeaks, "Obscuvians!"
Wickwright turns on his heel, but like the crows made of whispers, it's apparent that something is wrong with these Obscuvians. Homines leves of a different sort, dumb in that they say no words, but merely approach, and light in that they seem to float, but terrifying, not contemptible.
More appear as the Wickwright backs away, the crows melting into these light men, and Wickwright says, "Now, hold on." They do not.
"Run," Hopkin says hoarsely, and for once it is Wickwright obeying as they dash down the Rosstead street, upsetting passersby. Hopkin peers out from Wickwright's hood where he has scrambled into. "They're still following!" he cries, and Wickwright, whose old limbs are already tiring, utters a string of curses, some of which Hopkin has never even heard before. But this is Wickwright's home city, and destroyed or not, he is determined to outfox the strange homines leves in its walls. However, he has not been to Rosstead since his father died and with growing panic, he realizes that he is lost. These streets are no longer familiar, and Hopkin begins to realize what has already dawned on his Grimm as Wickwright continues to make wrong turns.
Clambering up to his ear, Hopkin hisses "Left, Wickwright," and desperately begins to navigate, pulling up what he can remember from the early stories in his book, from the urban legends in Rosstead, and soon the two are losing the cloaked figures as Hopkin guides his Grimm.
"In there!" he points to a grate, and Wickwright dives into it, ending up, not in waste as he might have expected, but in a dry, dark hole. The cloaked figures pass them by and he collapses on the ground, taking ragged, heavy breaths as Hopkin peers into the gloom, the light in his mouth and body illuminating him in the blackness.
"I knew where I was going," Wickwright snaps after a moment. The fact that he was just led around by his book does not sit well with him. For a moment, the order has been disrupted and he is eager to set it straight again.
"I know," Hopkin replies meekly. "You wrote it in me."
Wickwright looks mollified. "I did," he states, regaining his dignity. "But thank you for reminding me."
"That is the purpose of a book," Hopkin demurs, and his Grimm lifts him up, using him as a light as he looks around.
"You're not very bright. Where are we?"
"Under the house of Garamond Olivier," Hopkin replies. "The murderer. They say this is where he kept all those women."
Wickwright stares at the ground he is standing on. "But it's, ah, empty, right?"
"Garamond Olivier is long dead, and his victims buried, so I assume so," Hopkin replies.
"Well, it saved us, as morbid as it may be. But we don't know for how long. We need to leave, we must assume that the homines leves are searching for us and that Rosstead is no longer safe. Our business here is done, at the very least, and I know of a safe place nearby that we can reach by tomorrow with any luck." He moves to climb out, but Hopkin stops him.
"Wickwright, was Garamond Olivier a homo levis?"
"He certainly was no Jawbone Man, Hopkin."
"His heart was heavy though."
"Very heavy, Hopkin."
"But we still call him light?"
Wickwright runs a hand through his hair. "Light in the head, not light in the heart. Everyone is heavy-hearted sometimes. It is a certain kind of man who is not light in the head."
Hopkin frowns but allows them to leave, staring back at Garamond Olivier's prison which he could not illuminate. He is possessed of both a heavy head and a heavy heart, and as it plagues him, he feels briefly jealous of those who can feel light in any way at all. His touch can make the aves leves fly away, but he is firmly ground bound, pursued and tormented by the light men even more so than his Grimm, who he has to guide to get back to Finnigan Finch's home. Even Wickwright's head is a little light, and it reminds Hopkin of his own heavy burdens as a book and a plague.
And quietly, as Hopkin thinks, Wickwright pockets a vial that his foot bumped up on in the dark, a vial of black fluid with a note attached that his worried little Plague certainly needn't be concerned with.
Keep this safe.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:40 am
META SOLO
homines leves pt. II
April 21st
It is terrible to be raised to serve a purpose and have that purpose denied.
Hopkin knows this, sitting in Wickwright's hood, knows the miles they still have to go to convince the Jawbone Society that his purpose can still be fulfilled. But he has Wickwright on his side, so it will be done. His purpose is true, and the fact he can fulfill it is true, so being denied is unthinkable, an implausible outcome of the journey ahead. His trouble stems from transformation, which is a difficult, but not impossible thing to overcome. Hopkin knows he is still a book. He just no longer looks it.
With the man in front of him, it is different. He knows this, and it's apparent in his demeanor. Though he acts how he was trained to, his blue eyes dart up at Wickwright a little too often for him to really be as clever and casual as he's trying to seem. His training is incomplete, as Wickwright never bothered to acknowledge nor teach him, and so Feilim Finch, Wickwright's cousin's son and unofficial heir, is denied his purpose for as long as his predecessor withholds that word. All he knows is from the other Finches, and their opinions don't matter, at least not to the Jawbone Society. It is Wickwright's acknowledgement that makes or breaks him, and now, even at 52, Wickwright has not affirmed Feilim as his heir.
Feilim's transformation was supposed to validate him. Now it is nearly complete and he reaps no reward.
The transformation is uncanny nonetheless. As a fledgling Finch, he looks remarkably like a young Wickwright, just as Wickwright must have looked like a young Finnigan at his age. Feilim has the same blue eyes, the same brown hair, and apart from his anxiety, he acts much like Wickwright and every Finch before him. He's adopted the mannerisms, or, as Hopkin remembers, he's discarded his own. One becomes Finch and puts themselves aside for the Society. It must be damning to do all that since birth and, eighteen years later, be unsure if the Society even wants you.
Despite Feilim's woes, Hopkin envies him. All he needs is Wickwright Finch's word to be a part of the society. Hopkin needs the words of O'Neill and more, and whereas Hopkin must convince and convince and convince, all Feilim must do is wait. Even Feilim Finch acts like he has more legitimacy in the Jawbone Society than Hopkin, and it is irksome. If he did not look so much like Wickwright, Hopkin fancies he might hate him, as he does look and act so much like his Grimm, he has Hopkin's sympathy. He is not the only one with that sword looming over his neck, lighter though Feilim's sword may be.
"I saved the books from Rosstead," Feilim notes somewhat proudly. "The Finch family history was not destroyed in the riots."
Wickwright nods, sipping the tea that Feilim has provided him. "And they are hidden?"
"In the cave, yes," replies Feilim, "The one I used to hide in as a boy."
"Did you?" Wickwright murmurs, and then remembers, "Ah, yes. I never did visit often."
"No," Feilim agrees miserably. "You never did." He pauses for a moment, biting his lip as if arguing with himself, and finally mutters, "Uncle-"
"May I see the books?"
"Uncle, O'Neill came to visit two weeks ago." Wickwright is caught off guard. Feilim is not his official successor, so O'Neill has no business with him, a visit in person in times when travel is difficult is unorthodox to say the least. Feilim takes the opportunity Wickwright's hesitation affords and plows forward. "Is it true, Uncle? Has your contribution become a Plague?" Suddenly, his pronounced anxiety is apparent, and he coughs, running his hand through his hair. He's already laid his cards on the table though, so he continues. "I- He said that and," He glances at the table, where an issue from the Panymese Press lay between them. "I've been reading things. I've been looking for you, actually, asking around Rosstead. I knew if you were still alive, you'd come back to check. Uncle, I need to know that you're okay and I need-"
"I need you to tell me that it's not true." There's a pleading note in his voice and he finally meets Wickwright's eyes, biting his lip nervously.
"You should know better than to listen to the lightheaded men," Wickwright chastises gently, taking the paper between them and crumpling it as if that would fix the problem. "I am fine. O'Neill is simply instigating trouble, and he should have no business with you that I am not aware of. I'm here, aren't I? I'm here and in one piece, and that should satisfy your mind as to the real truth of the matter. A madman could not survive the riots plaguing Panymium." With that, he stretches, and says, "Thank you for the hospitality, Feilim. I think I'll retire to my wagon, there's much work to be done. I'll stay here with you for a few days if that's not a burden to you, and check on the histories to make sure they're all accounted for. It's good to see you well." He gets up and exits the scene, leaving Feilim alone in the house.
"Ah, but Uncle," Feilim murmurs to himself, picking up the teacup Wickwright has abandoned, "You left one question unanswered."
Wickwright has kept Feilim at arm's length his whole life, but if his contribution is compromised, Feilim must know. Picking up the crumpled paper, he smooths it out again and glances at it, then out the door Wickwright Finch has just departed through. He was raised to serve a purpose, and as a fledgling Finch, he's not about to stand idly by like a bird that Finch himself has captured.
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Posted: Mon Apr 18, 2011 7:59 am
META SOLO
the grotesque
April 25th
To Wickwright, the cave is quiet as his torch illuminates the walls. To Hopkin, it is alive with noise, a chattering hiss of crackling paper that is a language he once understood, something nagging at the back of his mind, yet frustratingly incomprehensible. He strains his ears trying to recall what the sounds might mean, but they are not Ardenian nor Panymese, and he is at a loss. This feeling of forgetting nags at him, and, unable to change it,he thus ignores it, paying attention to Wickwright instead.
Wickwright is crouched over the family histories, as he has been for the past few days, reading each and every one to make sure nothing has been lost. From before dawn till after dusk, Wickwright has been at this game, and Hopkin reads along with him, memorizing the stories since his Grimm is too busy to teach him with this new work at hand. Occasionally Hopkin asks a question and Wickwright murmurs a reply, but apart from that, only the whispering of the books and the crackling of flame can be heard in the dark souterrain.
When the noise comes, it is that much more startling for it. Footsteps. Hopkin looks up, expecting Feilim, but what he sees makes him frown, light from his mouth creased into a sharp white line. "Are you a Jawbone Man?" he asks, causing Wickwright to look up.
"No," Wickwright answers for Hopkin, "And thus, you do not belong in this cave. I am sorry for the inconvenience, I don't know how you came to find it or got past my nephew, but now you must-" His hand passes through the man's arm and he hesitates, staring at the figure. "-leave." Not a real man, then. An illusion, and not a beautiful one even, a bespectacled, terrible, ungraceful figure that makes Hopkin nervous. A grotesque, like in his flat world, both ungainly and foreign in this cave of Jawbone Men.
The man merely smiles at the pair of them, surrounded by their histories, and opens his mouth to speak. No reply is issued, but rather a statement, not openly threatening, but in this world that is supposed to belong only to Finch men, it is more disconcerting than if he had sworn to rend them limb from limb. "It was a pleasure to get to know you these past six weeks, but I'm afraid it's my time to go. The Plague Doctor has a new competitor-- I am him, and it looks like you and your Plague might have to get used to more visits with your new ally."
While Wickwright and Hopkin process this, he bows and disintegrates, leaving nothing but a dead crow and the hissing whisper of books as the sudden wind rustles pages that haven't been ruffled by a breeze for generations.
"I've lost my page," Wickwright mouths hoarsely, staring at the crow.
They've lost more than that. Feilim's home no longer feels safe, and once again the pair feel their Finch world slipping away from them as the Plague Doctor's dance catches up with their tired feet and the Jawbone Books around them whisper in fear of the invitation.
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